IT was a little past noon on Saturday when Rose Temple went to
Allestree’s studio accompanied by Aunt Hannah Colfax, a faithful
old negro woman who had been devoted to her from childhood and now
performed the dual duties of maid and duenna with all the complacence
and shrewdness of her age and color.
Passing the quaint show-windows of Daddy Lerwick’s curiosity-shop on
the first floor, in which were displayed--in amazing medley--pewter
cups, old line engravings, camel’s-hair shawls and horse-pistols,
they ascended the long narrow flight of stairs to the rooms above. On
reaching them, Aunt Hannah promptly ensconced herself and her knitting
under the window on the landing, while Rose pushed aside the portière
and entered the studio, unconsciously carrying with her some of the
crisp out-of-door atmosphere from whence she came and of which, in
her buoyant and radiant youth, she seemed a visible and triumphant
embodiment.
“It’s perfectly angelic of me to come to-day, Robert,” she remarked, as
she greeted him, “for I’m not in the mood for a sitting and, of course,
I shall behave abominably.”
“And you wish me to be bowed in the dust with gratitude for your
angelic determination to behave abominably?” he replied dryly, looking
at her with all an artist’s perception of her beauty and a reluctant
consciousness that the glow in her eyes and the color in her cheeks
were purely responses to the keen winter air, and that neither had ever
been inspired by his presence nor called into being by his words.
Meanwhile Rose moved unconsciously before the long mirror, and removing
her hat, slightly and deftly rearranged her beautiful and luxuriant
hair as she answered him. “Why not?” she said banteringly; “you can’t
believe that any one likes to pose for an hour--even to be made into
one of your delightful pictures--but I’ll try to behave beautifully if
you’ll answer all my questions, instead of going on with your painting,
with a cigarette between your teeth and with the face of a sphinx, as
you did the other day!”
“When you asked a dozen questions I couldn’t answer!” Allestree was
selecting his brushes and contemplating the canvas on his easel with a
despairing eye.
He had already outlined Rose’s figure and decided on the desired pose,
but it seemed to him impossible to do justice to the exquisite charm of
her beauty. It was a simple picture; he had endeavored to preserve what
seemed to him the keynote of her personality, and had forborne to use
any of those effects of brilliant color, rich draperies and elaborate
accessories which a portrait painter commonly loves to lavish on a
beautiful subject; instead, he had made her figure, with its superb
poise, stand out in absolute simplicity. To Allestree she personified
all the glorious possibilities of youth, with its buoyant hopes, its
poignant truth, its magnificent faith in life, in the world, in itself.
But when he looked from her to the canvas--where he had hoped to
express something of all this--he felt deeply discouraged; his brush
might be touched with the magic of a deep if unspoken passion, but it
could never paint her as she appeared to him!
“I do not remember asking anything but the simplest questions,” she
remarked, as she took her seat in the carved armchair which he had
placed for her before a curtain of soft deep blue which seemed to
suggest an April sky; “only you didn’t want to answer them. I warn you
that I mean to be answered to-day! There’s nothing so abominable as
your silences.”
Allestree smiled a little as he began to paint, with a slow and
reluctant touch, feeling his way toward some achievement which might
at least foreshadow success. “I fancied there was a virtue in silence;
there’s a copy-book axiom to that effect,” he remarked; “besides, you
would never come here at all punctually if you are not left in doubt on
some mooted point. Mystery lures a woman as surely as magic.”
Rose gave him a reproachful glance. “And you think I like to sit here
and listen to Mammy Hannah snore while you smoke and paint?” she said
in a vexed tone, “for you always smoke and she always falls asleep.”
“Which is a special providence,” he retorted, “and the greatest virtue
I ever met in a duenna.”
Without replying Rose looked absently around her, observing the details
of his workshop more carefully than usual and noticing the harmonious
effect of the colors, which he had grouped in his hangings. There was
the high northern light concentrated on his subject, but beyond, in
the corners, there were invitingly rich shadows, and here and there a
bold, half finished sketch had been nailed to the walls. A well worn
Turkey rug covered the portion of the floor occupied by his model, and
a table in the window was set with a chafing-dish, a box of Egyptians
and an odd shaped bronze tea-pot with some egg-shell cups which he had
purchased in Japan. In a way Rose knew the history of everything in
the room and almost the cost, but there was a touch of luxury about it
which vaguely irritated her; it often seemed that Allestree was too
well off to ever be a great artist,--he lacked the spur of necessity.
“Shall you paint for a living if you are ever poor?” she asked
abruptly, resting her chin in her hand and contemplating him with a
clear and impersonal gaze.
Allestree looked up, and observing the delicate hand with its tapering
fingers and the jewelled chain which clasped her throat, smiled. “Shall
you sing?” he asked, amused.
She sighed softly. “I wish that I might--and in opera too!” she
replied, “I fear I should to-day but for father. You think me a very
useless person, I see,” she added, smiling a little, “and perhaps I am.
But isn’t it because I’ve had no chance? Girls are trained up in such
an objectless way unless they are brought up to marry. Thank heaven, I
escaped that; father is as innocent of such designs as a baby! But if
I had been a boy I should have been given a profession, I should have
had something to do instead of being expected merely to dress well and
look ornamental!”
As she spoke her face lost a little of its vivid color and animation,
but the slight pensiveness of her look seemed to Allestree to increase
the poignancy of her spell; there was a subtle suggestion of that
imaginative longing for the fulfilment of those vague youthful
conceptions of happiness and life and love which stir in all young
things, as the sap stirs in the trees in springtime and the bud forms
under the leaves.
He did not immediately reply, but continued to work on the portrait
before him which seemed to him more and more hopelessly colorless and
lifeless compared with his model. “Perhaps my point of view is too
concentrated to be of much value,” he said at length; “to me the mere
fact of your existence seems enough to compensate for the loss of a
good many more actively employed and earthly individuals who must be
working out your privileged season as a lily of the field.”
She gave him a quick, slightly amazed look, and blushed. “You speak as
though I were selected from the rubbish heap!” she exclaimed laughing,
“as though I profited by the misfortunes of others. I don’t know
whether to regard it as a compliment or not!”
But Allestree was quite unmoved, absorbed indeed in his work. “Did I
ever pay you a compliment, Rose?” he asked, after an instant, meeting
her glance with one that was so eloquent of deeper feeling that she
withdrew hers, vaguely alarmed.
“I don’t believe you ever did,” she replied hastily, with an
instinctive desire to put off any suggestion of passion on his part,
for much as she liked him and long as she had known him, Allestree was
only a lay figure on her horizon; he had never stirred her heart, and
she dreaded a break in that friendship which she dreamed of prolonging
forever with a girl’s usual infatuated belief in the possibilities of
such a friendship between a man and a woman. The channel into which
their talk had unconsciously drifted so alarmed her indeed that she
rose abruptly and went to the window and stood looking down into the
street, her perfect profile and the soft upward sweep of her beautiful
hair showing against the dark draperies which she had pushed aside,
and moving the painter in turn to still deeper depths of artistic
self-abasement.
“Robert,” she said suddenly, after a moment’s embarrassed silence, “who
was that with you the other evening? Was it Mr. Fox?”
Allestree glanced up quickly, and then stooped to pick up a brush which
had dropped to the floor. “Yes,” he said quietly, “how did you happen
to recognize him?”
“I was not sure--but I’ve seen two or three pictures of him in the
magazines and the weeklies. One can’t forget his head, do you think?”
and she came slowly back to her chair, unconscious of the change in
Allestree’s expression.
“Well, I never tried,” he confessed; “I’ve known William Fox all my
life, and he’s my own first cousin besides. It’s rather odd,” he added,
“by the way, that you never met him, but then you have been away from
the city when he has been here.”
Rose regarded him thoughtfully, her composure fully restored. “He has
a very remarkable face,” she observed, “and it is fine and pale like a
bit of old ivory.”
“Oh, yes, all the women fall in love with him,” Allestree assented with
impatient irony.
“Do they? That doesn’t sound interesting, but I should not believe
it of his face, he doesn’t look like a lady’s man! Is it true--” she
added with a moment’s hesitation--“that he has never loved any one but
Margaret White?”
“It’s true that Margaret treated him abominably,” said Allestree
bluntly; “she was engaged to him when they were both very young and
threw him over to marry White.”
“What a singular choice,” Rose observed, “White has nothing attractive
about him, and he is so selfish, so hard; they say he treats her badly.”
“He should--in poetic justice,” replied Allestree laughing, “for
she married him for his money and his position. Fox was a poor man
then with no prospects but his brains and, strange to say, Margaret
underestimated their possibilities.”
“And yet she is very clever. Did he really feel it so much?” she
added, her natural sympathy for a sentimental situation touched and
strengthened by the remembrance of Fox’s clear-cut face, which had
appeared to her vision cameo-like against the night.
“Now you are beginning to ask me your unanswerable questions,” he
retorted smiling grimly, with a keen sense of annoyance that Fox
could intrude so sharply into their talk. “I know he was very much in
love with her then, but he is on good terms with them both now and--”
he stopped abruptly; his quick ear had caught a step on the stairs
accompanied by another sound which startled him with an impatient
certainty of a surprise.
It was the tread of a large Scotch collie who lifted the portière on
his nose and walked deliberately into the room. Allestree laid down his
brush with a peculiarly exasperated expression.
“Well, Sandy,” he said, not unkindly, addressing the dog.
Rose turned and held out her hand. “What a beautiful creature,” she
remarked; “who does he belong to? Who is coming?”
Her companion gave her an enigmatical glance, observing the collie as
he approached and laid his head against her knee. The step on the stair
had now reached the landing, and they heard Aunt Hannah’s chair scrape
as she moved and her knitting needles rattled on the floor, for she had
been startled out of a nap.
“Who is it?” Rose repeated, framing the question with her lips.
“Fox,” replied Allestree dryly, laying down his palette and lighting a
cigarette; “he has an uncommonly retentive memory it appears.”
She glanced at him quickly, a suddenly illuminated understanding in her
eyes, and blushed exquisitely, for she was still young enough to be
easily embarrassed. At the same moment Fox pushed aside the portière
and entered the room.
“Hello, Bobby,” he began, and then paused abruptly at the sight of
Rose. “I fear I’m an intruder,” he added courteously.
Allestree smiled grimly and presented him to Miss Temple. “On the
contrary, I think you got the time pretty closely,” he remarked
ironically.
Fox laughed. “Guilty!” he exclaimed with perfect good humor; “down
Sandy!” he added sharply to his collie; “you’ve bewitched the dog, Miss
Temple; he rarely makes friends with strangers.”
“Then I appreciate all the more his advances,” she replied smiling, “a
dog always knows a friend.”
“And an honest man,” said Fox; “I’m free to confess that I don’t trust
one who dislikes dogs.”
“Every man has his crank,” remarked Allestree, walking to and fro
before his easel, “and if you begin on dogs with William there’s no
end.”
Rose laughed, glancing from Allestree’s slightly vexed countenance to
the serenity on the brow of his cousin, who had seated himself on the
edge of an elaborate brass-bound chest which was one of the studio
properties. “I can sympathize, Mr. Fox,” she said; “we’ve always had
dogs.”
Fox gave her one of his brilliant inscrutable looks. “I entirely agree
with Lamartine, Miss Temple,” he replied; “when a man is unhappy God
gives him a dog.”
“Good Lord, Billy, are you making a bid for our sympathy?” exclaimed
Allestree with exasperation.
Both Fox and Rose laughed merrily.
“He’s only quoting the modern classics,” she replied gayly.
“What I should like to know is how he gets out of school in the middle
of the day,” said Allestree dryly; “for a man who is supposed to be a
leader, he manages to desert at the most remarkable moments. One of the
party whips told me the other day that Fox was as hard to trail as a
comet.”
“Nothing of the sort,” replied Fox, with indolent amusement; “we
adjourned over, last night, until Monday, and I came around here as
usual to sit for my portrait.”
Allestree bit his lip, conscious that his irritability was thrown
into sharp relief by his cousin’s imperturbable good humor, and
resenting, with a sting of premonition, the effect of Fox’s pose upon
Rose Temple. He was not a dull man and could not close his eyes to the
fact that she had apparently come to life, been revivified and animated
by Fox’s entrance, and he knew well enough the interest that the
touch of romance in his past history added to his cousin’s brilliant
personality. However, it was useless to sulk at the inevitable
misfortune which had destroyed his hour with Rose, and he turned his
attention to hospitality.
“Will you make tea for us, Rose, if I set the kettle boiling?” he
asked, as he drew forward the table, “I’ve got some cakes in the
cupboard and a few sandwiches.”
“Why, of course; it will be delightful,” she assented readily, rising
from her chair to help him find the tea caddy. “I’m eternally indebted,
Mr. Fox; he’s going to let me off a half-hour’s posing,” she added,
smiling over her shoulder at him.
He laughed, moving over apparently to study the half outlined portrait
on the easel, but really enjoying the sight of the graceful figure
bending over the table, and her delicate hands engaged in opening
the caddy and measuring the tea into Allestree’s old tea-pot. As she
did so the light from the window fell vividly on her bright head,
and the exquisite details of her profile, the curve of her cheek and
chin, the thick lashed white eyelids, the short upper lip, the little
pink ear, all engaged Fox’s critical and appreciative eye. Like most
men who are forced to live in bachelor apartments, he felt keenly the
domesticity of the little scene and the touch of gracious femininity
which her presence lent to the tea-table. There was a charm, too, in
her unconsciousness, and he was almost sorry when she finally turned
with a steaming cup in her hands.
“You’ll have to take lemon,” she said, “for Robert never has cream
unless it’s sour, but do you take sugar?”
“He takes three lumps to a cup,” interposed Allestree bluntly; “but
he’ll probably deny it--he’s a politician.”
Fox laughed. “And in the house of my friends!” he said; “but that is
only a _coup d’état_ on his part,” he added, “to keep me from asking
for his last lump, Miss Temple; I saw him looking for more just now.”
“We’ll draw lots for it, Robert,” said Rose gayly, taking her seat at
the table and smiling across at Fox from pure pleasure in the little
unconventional picnic.
But Allestree’s attention had been arrested by something in the street
below, and he interrupted them with a gesture of despair. “Mrs. Osborne
is coming!” he announced with a grimace.
Rose glanced hastily at the clock. “Oh, I must be going,” she
exclaimed; “I had no idea it was so late!” and she rose hurriedly and
reached for her hat.
Allestree murmured something uncomplimentary to his approaching
visitor, and Fox set down his cup of tea. The first tremor of an
earthquake shock could scarcely have broken up the little group more
abruptly. Rose had put on her hat and adjusted her filmy veil, and it
was Fox who helped her with her coat and her furs. Allestree, instead,
threw a cloth over the picture on the easel.
Rose held out her hand. “Good-by,” she said with a charming smile;
“I know I’m a trying model, but you’re a perfect angel of patience,
Robert.”
As she spoke there was a frou-frou of skirts in the hall, and Lily
Osborne came slowly and gracefully through the portière. She was a
handsome woman with an abundance of reddish gold hair and long black
eyes which had the effect of having no white, a peculiarity possessed
by Rachel and also, we are told, by the devil.
The two women bowed stiffly and Rose slipped out, attended by Fox
and Sandy, leaving Allestree to devour his chagrin and receive his
accomplished visitor.